Page 70 of The Summer Club

She regards his pained expression with more regret. “Well, I am sorry to hear that.”

He ushers her inside. “Would you like some wine?”

She considers the afternoon that lies ahead of them. “Bourbon,” she says. “Neat.”

Sydney is waiting her turn, and with Hugh dispatched to the liquor cabinet she takes it. Tish can feel her about to bubble over; there seems to be a lot she wants to convey. But first, Tish takes her hands and gives her a once-over. There it is—the Darling nose, straight and upturned at the tip. And those steel blue eyes. An O’Malley mouth, just like Tish’s mother’s, heart-shaped and full. Unlike Tish, whose lips are customarily zipped with discretion, Sydney’s are garrulously put to use. Like now, as she begins spilling everything on her mind right there on the threshold. “Grandma, I’m so glad you’re here. Before the family meets, I would like to talk with you in private. About the house. It’s so wonderful, it really is. And I’ve been thinking a lot about it. And talking to James, of course—but I don’t know. It’s so much. And I want to be sure you’re sure. So I was thinking—”

“Grandchild.” Tish holds up her hand. Oh, to have all that youthful energy again! “Take a breath, dear. I am here to talk. And that is just what we’ll do. But may I come in first?”

Goodness, Charley was not exaggerating. Everyone in this house is on edge. She was right to come.

“Oh gosh, I’m sorry! Yes. Come in, Grandma!” Sydney is the only one who has ever called her that and, if she’s honest, the only one for whom Tish would probably suffer the title. Realizing that now she feels a dab more of regret. She’s held them all at such a distance all these years. It seemed so necessary then. But now…

“You’re looking well,” Martin says, approaching her next. Apparently, she has entered some kind of receiving line. Tish has barely taken two steps into the house. Ah, well. It’s better than the greeting she’d feared. Tish allows him to give her a peck on the cheek. “May I take your purse?” he asks politely.

Tish smiles at him appreciatively. But she does not hand over the purse. She never surrenders her purse; she likes to hang on to it. But this time there is another reason for that. “Thank you, Martin. But I’ll keep it with me.” She looks him up and down. So handsome. And polite. If Hugh had to end up with a man, she is glad Hugh ended up with a man like him. Martin appears to be quite wonderful.

And then there is Charley. Her beautiful boy. “Hello, Mother. Good to see you.” The furrow in his brow has not gone, but there is new color in his cheeks. This is good.

Tish is invited to sit in an armchair. The moment she sees it her breath catches. It’s upholstered in a blue-and-white seashell toile, but Tish instantly recognizes its Chippendale legs. “This chair.” She turns to Charley. “You kept it?”

“Of course,” he says. “Cora reupholstered it. It was her idea.”

Tish looks at the young adults who are watching curiously. “This was your grandfather’s chair,” she tells them. And then, carefully, she lowers herself into. It is as deep and encircling as she recalls; the one piece Morty brought from the city to the rustic cottage when they first got it.

“It’s such a spartan little place,” Tish had protested when he had it delivered. It was too formal for the space.

“Trust me,” Morty had said. “One needs a good chair with a view of the sea.”

Now she lets its cushioned depths engulf her. Morty, she thinks again. The cottage is so changed and yet she feels its bones in her own.

“Cora will be right down,” Charley says. “Any minute, I’m sure.” But Tish knows her son. He’s not sure, at all.

“Until then.” Hugh brings a bourbon.

She glances around at their faces. “Am I to drink alone?”

There is a flurry and everyone dispatches to the kitchen. It gives her time to look around more closely without feeling rude.

The main part of the cottage—the hull, as Morty used to call it—remains. The front door leads right into the living room—no formality there. The living room in which she sits is the old living room of before. Though behind her the kitchen has been expanded and additions added on either side and overhead. She glances about. There is a bump-out dining room, informal with a rustic table and white chairs. In keeping with the white Shaker kitchen cabinetry and butcher block island. Minimalist coastal design, she will give Cora that. It honors the cozy cottage feel. The walls, once untreated pine, are painted a cloud white. The two-foot, square-shaped sash windows had been replaced with large picture windows, to better let the light in. And the beach view, with it. It’s pleasing, she has to admit.

There are bookshelves with worn paperbacks. Seashells scattered across the mantel, which she is pleased to see is the original stone face Morty had commissioned for her. Beneath her feet are the original floorboards, resurfaced and stained. She taps a toe to them now. These very floors she paced on the last day she awoke with her husband. Her heart flutters in her rib cage and Tish closes her eyes, willing it to slow.

As ice clinks against glasses in the kitchen behind her and a cork is popped, she rises carefully from Morty’s chair. There is a painting over the fireplace that has captured her attention. In fact, she realizes, looking around, all of the walls are adorned with paintings. Seemingly done by the same hand. She moves in for a better look.

The painting is an oil. And as soon as she is close enough, she recognizes the faces. Sydney at the center, Hugh and Andi flanking her. And behind them, Charley. And Cora. They are splashed in pink sunset hues, smiles beaming. Tish squints at the artist’s name and gasps. Cora Darling. She moves on to another, hanging on the opposite wall. It’s a much smaller ocean scene. Dark and stormy. She can almost hear the crashing waves. Again, in the bottom right corner: Cora Darling. Tish cannot believe this. She’d known Cora was studying some kind of fine art at Vassar, but it had been lost in all the excitement when Cora and her situation were introduced at Charley’s graduation. Tish assumed she’d given up her art, along with her hopes of a degree, when she married Charley and had the twins. “I stand corrected,” she whispers now to herself.

“What’s that?”

Tish turns, startled at the voice behind her. It’s Cora.

Tish feels caught in the act and is about to pivot right back to Morty’s armchair where her glass of bourbon awaits, but stops herself. She meets Cora’s gaze. “I’m admiring your work,” she admits.

If Cora appreciates this, she does not show it or say so. Tish is reminded why she has stayed away from Riptide, besides the obvious reason. But she is game. She will try once more. “I did not know that you still painted.”

“I never stopped.”

Tish knows what this means. She would have known if she’d asked. If she’d stayed in touch and connected with her daughter-in-law, or with any of them, for that matter. There were invitations issued—to Christmas, to birthdays. She attended infrequently. And left early regularly. She supposes the Connecticut house is also full of Cora’s art, but she can’t say. She never stopped long enough to look at the walls or spend time in the home where her son has lived with his family. Her heart bangs in her chest, again, and she puts a hand to it.

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